pls pls marc finding out shy reader has a praise kink
𐙚⋆.˚ shy • 𝖬𝖺𝗋𝖼 𝖲𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗈𝗋 𝗑 𝗌𝗁𝗒 𝖿𝖾𝗆 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 • 𝘯𝘴𝘧𝘸
Warnings: p in v!, unprotected sex!, creampie!, praise kink, soft dom Marc!, pet names, a bit of dumbification, overstimulation, pussy! drunk Marc
Marc’s eyes lit up at the pitiful whine that came out of you. A cocky smile curled on his lips, all he did was say a few words while being balls deep inside you.
Practically got me droolin’ for you bunny, jus’ feel so good, look so beautiful like this.
You mewled at his words, a sound that he’s never heard come out of you. His thrusts were slow and steady, Marc wanted to hear how sticky and wet you are.
He loves knowing how good he makes you feel and he thinks you love it just as much as he does.
Your legs are wrapped around his hips lazily with one of his hand holding your right thigh up for that angle he knows makes you go stupid.
“I’m a lucky man aren’t I? You’re the type of woman men go to war for. The type I’d die for” Marc purred into your ear.
Chills ran down your spine, you felt so warm, so safe. Marc only chuckled as he felt you pulsing around him. “P- please Marc” you managed out.
“Mhm? Is my shy girl finally using her words?” Marc mocked.
You whimpered as his thrusts got heavier. He knew what you were asking for, you never had to tell him twice.
His thighs slapped onto the back of yours, slick and sweat making the lewd sound of skin slapping even louder. You could feel him bending your limbs with his thrusts he might as well have been Jackhammering you onto the sheets.
“That’s it” Marc cooed, your legs began to shake as you felt the fuzzy feeling in your tummy building. It was a feeling you’ve never felt before, your body was moving on its own as Marc worked you like an instrument.
“Good girlll baby, it’s ok. Doing so good f’me, doing so well” Marc seethed as you came. He tried hiding the shaking of his voice but gave up half way through. You just felt so good.
Fucking you through your orgasm is always Marc’s favorite part. Your cunts pulsing and slick, he can feel your body thanking him for what he was making you feel.
You clung onto Marc as he came. He buried himself into your neck, huffing and puffing out praises and incomprehensible strings of words.
“If you need a bit of praise sweetheart, I’ll give you as much as you want”
Summary: You expected nothing by jokingly saying "Good morning, Ra" to the sun each day as you walked to work. Well, today, Ra answers back
Warning(s): None! :)
Words: 3,161
Note(s): This is set in the Moon Knight universe, after the events of the show occurred
You didn’t mean for it to become a ritual.
The first time, it was just something to press into the empty space.
Your walk to work isn’t long, not really, but it stretches in that particular way quiet moments do, long enough for your mind to start turning on itself. Long enough to notice things you’d rather blur past. The jagged cracks splitting the sidewalk like old scars. The same car alarm shrieking in uneven bursts down the block, as if it’s caught in a loop it can’t escape. The low hum of a waking city that never quite drowns out the quieter, heavier noise underneath- your own thoughts, pressing in before the day has a chance to bury them under conversations, tasks, or distractions.
So you look up.
The sky is clear in a way that almost feels intentional. Not soft or forgiving, but sharp- an uninterrupted stretch of pale morning blue pulled thin across the horizon. The sun hangs there, just cresting the edge of the world, already too bright, already insisting on its presence. It forces your eyes to narrow, light catching along your lashes, spilling gold into everything it touches: the rooftops, the pavement, the edges of your vision.
And because there was nothing else to say...
“Good morning, Ra,” you muttered.
A joke.
A dumb one, if you’re being honest. The kind that only feels clever at two in the morning, when your screen is the only light in the room and you’re half-lost in a spiral of mythology threads and comment sections that take themselves just seriously enough to be convincing. You’d scrolled past posts about sun gods and ancient rituals, about people who once believed the sky itself had a pulse, had intention, had eyes.
It lingered longer than it should have.
Maybe that’s why you said it.
Or maybe it was just the silence.
Either way, it wasn’t meant to be anything.
Just a throwaway line tossed into the open air, an attempt to soften the edge of a world that, at that hour, felt a little too vast and a little too uninterested in you.
You expected nothing.
You got nothing.
No shift in the light. No warmth curling differently against your skin. No sign, subtle or otherwise, that anything had heard you, much less cared.
That should’ve been the end of it.
But the next day, you did it again.
Not intentionally, not in any way you could point to. It just… slipped loose from somewhere behind your teeth, like your body remembered before your mind had the chance to weigh in. Same stretch of sidewalk under your feet, uneven and familiar. Same angle of sunlight cutting across your face, forcing your eyes half-shut. Same quiet pressing in around you, dense and expectant in a way that made the words feel almost necessary.
“Morning, Ra.”
You didn’t break stride. Didn’t pause to think about it. The words fell behind you as easily as your footsteps, swallowed by the space you left in your wake.
By the third day, you noticed.
Not just that you were saying it, but that you were waiting for the moment to.
Your attention started to catch on the details. The point in your walk where the buildings began to thin, where brick and concrete gave way just enough for the sky to widen overhead. The way the light hit there, unobstructed, sharper- less filtered by glass and shadow.
By the fifth day, it wasn’t an accident anymore.
You timed it.
Not consciously, not at first, but your steps adjusted, your pace settling into something just deliberate enough to land you there at the right moment. You’d glance up before you spoke now, squinting into that same unwavering brightness, as if checking that everything was in place.
By the second week, it had rules.
It had to be outside- saying it through a window felt wrong, like trying to have a conversation through glass. It had to be during that exact stretch of your walk, where the sky opened just enough to make the moment feel… unobstructed. Clear. Direct.
You weren’t superstitious. You knew that.
But there was something about consistency that settled into your bones anyway. Something about repetition that made the act feel less like a joke and more like… acknowledgment.
Or maybe it just made it feel less ridiculous.
Less like you were talking to nothing.
You never expected a response.
Why would you?
The thought barely even qualifies as a question- it’s more like a reflex, something instinctive and dismissive that settles into place before anything else can take root. Of course there wouldn’t be an answer. Of course there couldn’t be.
Gods- real, imagined, half-remembered from old stories that have been worn smooth over centuries- don’t pause for things like this. They don’t lean down out of the sky to acknowledge someone mumbling a greeting between crosswalks and coffee. They don’t sift through the noise of a waking city to pick out a single, ordinary voice and decide it matters.
There’d be stories: real ones, not the kind buried in textbooks or retold for entertainment. News reports that didn’t sound like satire. Footage that couldn’t be explained away or picked apart frame by frame until it lost its shape. The sky itself would feel different, like it had weight to it. Like it was something more than empty space lit by something distant and indifferent.
Cars pass. Tires hiss against pavement. A screen door slams somewhere behind you. The same car alarm down the block stutters into life and dies again, unresolved. The sun rises because it always has, not because it’s choosing to.
You reach that stretch of open sky, the one you’ve unconsciously measured your mornings around. The buildings fall away just enough, the horizon widening like a held breath finally released. Light spills down unobstructed, sharp and golden, catching along the edges of everything.
You tilt your head back, squinting.
“Good morning, Ra.”
The words leave you like they always do- quiet, almost incidental. A habit. A ritual. Nothing more.
You take another step.
And something answers.
Good morning.
You stop so abruptly your shoe drags hard against the pavement, rubber catching with a rough, jarring scrape that echoes louder than it should. The motion jolts up through your body, sharp and grounding, like something trying, and failing, to remind you where you are.
Calm.
That’s the first thing your mind latches onto. Not gentle, not kind- just… composed. Controlled in a way that suggests it has never needed to rush, never needed to raise itself to be heard.
And beneath that calm-
Weight.
Not the kind you hear, but the kind you feel. It settles into your bones, sinks past your skin and muscle like gravity deciding to focus on you alone. Your chest tightens around it, your breath catching just slightly, like your body doesn’t quite know how to make room for something that vast.
The light shifts.
Not across the sky- nothing so broad, nothing so easily dismissed as weather or coincidence or the slow turning of the earth.
It moves toward you.
At first, it’s almost imperceptible. A tightening of brightness at the edge of your awareness, like the world has subtly rebalanced itself without announcing the change. The street doesn’t look different. The buildings don’t cast new shadows. The horizon remains exactly where it was a moment ago.
And yet, the warmth on your skin changes character.
It sharpens.
What was once simple sunlight becomes something more deliberate, more directed. It no longer just falls on you. It finds you. It gathers across your face, your hands, the line of your shoulders with unsettling precision, like an unseen hand turning a lens ever so slightly until everything unnecessary drops away and only you remain in focus.
Consistency is rare, the voice says.
It doesn’t rise or fall. It doesn’t shift with emotion or emphasis. It simply is, carried through the air like something older than sound, like meaning shaped directly into presence rather than spoken words.
You let out a short breath- sharp at first, then fractured halfway through, like it can’t decide whether to become a laugh or just collapse into something quieter. It catches in your throat anyway, thin and disbelieving, leaving a faint sting behind your teeth.
Your mind scrambles for something solid to stand on, something normal enough to hold the moment in place.
“I said ‘good morning,’” you argue weakly.
The words come out uneven, stripped of their usual certainty. They sound smaller than you intend them to, carried out into that unnaturally attentive air like they’ve lost confidence halfway through leaving your mouth.
You swallow, then add- because your brain is still reaching for something, anything that makes this feel less like what it is:
“That’s not exactly a sacred rite.”
I did not name it sacred.
The calmness of it is almost worse than anything else.
Because it leaves room.
Room for implication. Room for interpretation. Room for the uncomfortable idea that something vast and ancient is standing on the other side of your ordinary words, regarding them with a seriousness you never intended them to have.
“…You’re telling me,” you continue, your voice tightening slightly around the edges, as if you’re trying to keep it from cracking into something less controlled, “that saying ‘good morning’ every day somehow… what? Got your attention?”
The question hangs there the moment it leaves you- thin, exposed, immediately feeling too large for the sidewalk it’s spoken on. It drifts into that unnatural stillness the same way a stone drops into deep water: small at first, then swallowed by something much bigger than it should be able to disturb.
The light doesn’t flicker.
It doesn’t hesitate.
It simply holds, unwavering in its focus on you, warm and precise as a gaze that has never once looked away since it found you.
For a moment, there’s nothing but that attention.
Not silence exactly- something more deliberate than silence. A pause shaped with intent, as if the world itself is waiting for the answer to finish forming properly.
Yes.
It doesn’t arrive like speech so much as declaration, pressed directly into the space around you without needing breath or distance or permission. It doesn’t echo, because it doesn’t need to repeat itself. It lands fully formed, complete in its certainty, as though ambiguity is not something it has ever had to accommodate.
The warmth across your skin deepens a fraction, not increasing in intensity but in presence, as if that single syllable has anchored it more firmly to you. The air feels slightly narrower again, the world subtly re-centering itself around the fact that you are still standing here, still being regarded.
You become very aware of your own posture.
“Okay,” you say, and the word comes out flatter than you intend, stripped of its usual function as agreement or dismissal. Here it lands somewhere in between, uncertain and thin. “That doesn’t really explain-”
You stop.
You realize, distantly, that your hands have gone slightly cold despite the warmth pressing against your skin. A contradiction that makes no sense and yet is happening all the same, like your body can’t agree on whether it should be reacting to the sun or something inside the sun.
You are noticed
The words pause there, and for the first time you feel something like intent gathering behind them- not emotional, not human, but aimed.
You are consistent. You are attentive. You return.
Each sentence is delivered with the same unbroken calm, but they do not feel interchangeable. They land in sequence, precise as measurements taken without hesitation. There is no praise in them. No approval. Just accounting- careful, deliberate recognition of pattern.
I offer you a choice. You may refuse.
The warmth across your skin shifts immediately, deepening: not increasing in intensity in any measurable sense, but changing quality, as though the source has moved closer in definition rather than distance.
You could become my conduit. My Avatar. A presence in the world where mine cannot remain unbroken. You would act. You would be given what is necessary to do so.
Your eyes shift slightly- half instinct, half disbelief- toward the empty stretch of sidewalk, toward the ordinary continuation of the world that refuses to acknowledge what is happening here.
“Why me?”
There are other people.
The thought comes unbidden, sharp and immediate, as if your mind is trying to restore order by sheer repetition alone.
There are always other people.
You can feel them in the abstract, even now- scattered across the city in their own uninterrupted continuations. People moving through their mornings with purpose that doesn’t require explanation. People whose lives are already legible in ways yours suddenly feels… less so. Defined roles. Clear trajectories. Faces that would make sense if someone were to single them out and say this one, of course this one.
People who carry themselves in ways that seem to justify attention before it’s even given.
People who matter in obvious ways, visible ways, measurable ways.
The phrasing sharpens in your mind as it forms, like you’re stacking arguments against something that hasn’t actually contradicted you out loud. People whose importance doesn’t need interpretation. People who exist within frameworks that already understand them- names that would fit cleanly into a statement like this without bending it into something unfamiliar.
People who would make sense in a sentence like this.
Because you are here.
The warmth across your skin shifts subtly again, not increasing, but re-centering, like attention narrowing further until there is no remaining ambiguity about what is being looked at.
You return, the voice continues, calm as ever. You speak. You do not require recognition to continue.
The confusion in your chest doesn’t ease. It deepens, because nothing in this explains selection. Nothing in it justifies you as a singular point of contact in something that feels immeasurably larger than singular anything.
You assume worth must be earned through visibility. Through impact. Through scale. That is not the case.
The words settle with unsettling ease, like they’ve been placed exactly where they were always meant to go.
“…Alright,” you say.
The word barely makes it out at all- more breath than speech, more surrender than statement. It leaves your mouth and immediately disappears into the space between you and the light, swallowed so completely it feels like it might never have existed outside your own mind.
For a fraction of a second, nothing changes.
Then, your world ignites.
Light floods everything at once: no origin, no direction, no boundary. It doesn’t pour in from the sky so much as overwrite it. The air, the pavement, your own skin- everything is suddenly defined in a brilliance so complete it erases the idea of shadow rather than filling it.
And it isn’t just around you.
It is through you.
Inside you.
Behind your eyes. Beneath your ribs. Threading through every place you’ve ever understood as “yourself” until there is no clear separation between where you end and the light begins.
There is no pain in the way your mind expects pain to exist.
But there is intensity so total it refuses comparison.
And then- beneath the overwhelming brilliance, beneath the impossible saturation of light that seems to erase the difference between seeing and being seen- you feel it. Something remembering how to exist inside you properly.
It feels like a lock turning after years of resisting every almost-fit, every near-alignment, every moment where something nearly worked but never quite held. A mechanism worn by time and repetition suddenly finding the exact cut it was always meant to respond to.
You will carry the sun, he continues. And it will carry you in return.
Then the light begins to change, like attention slowly lifting its hand away from your face.
The overwhelming brilliance doesn’t vanish- it unthreads. It loosens its hold on the world in stages, each layer of impossible brightness peeling back without resistance, like it had only ever been holding itself there long enough to be acknowledged.
The pressure in your senses eases first.
Then the saturation in the air.
Then the way everything had felt too sharply defined, as if reality itself had been overexposed.
Bit by bit, the world returns underneath it.
Street. Pavement. Distance. Shape.
Sound filters back in- muted at first, then slowly reclaiming its ordinary texture. A passing car. The faint scrape of movement somewhere behind you. The city resuming what it had been doing all along, entirely uninterested in whether or not anything extraordinary had just occurred.
And then, the light is gone.
You are standing on the sidewalk exactly where you were before it began.
Your feet are still planted against cracked pavement. Your weight is still yours. The air is still ordinary against your skin, no longer shaped by attention that felt too large to be real.
A breeze passes, indifferent.
There is a matter requiring proximity. You are to meet an agent of Khonshu, known as Moon Knight
The moment it is spoken, it feels less like introduction and more like designation. A fixed point in something larger than the conversation, something already in motion long before you were included in it.
There is no image given to you. No explanation. No story attached.
Only the name, held steady in that same impossible calm.
They will be aware of me.
Another pause, slightly longer this time, not for emphasis, but as if allowing the instruction to fully settle into you, into whatever part of you has already begun to accept that this is how things now proceed.
Moon Knight.
That isn’t a mystery. Not entirely.
Even people who don’t follow anything like this kind of thing know the shape of it. A vigilante. The kind of presence that shows up after violence has already happened and leaves before anyone agrees on what they saw. A man. Or something like one. A figure that belongs to rooftops and alleyways, to the spaces where law and absence of law overlap and stop caring about the difference.
The voice does not elaborate. It does not soften the edges of that name or translate it into something more manageable. It simply leaves it there, fully formed, as if your understanding is assumed.
You become aware, faintly, of how strange it is that your body is still here doing normal things- feet on pavement, weight balanced, breath continuing on its own- while your thoughts try to catch up to the idea that you have just been instructed to meet a masked vigilante as if this is a logistical appointment.
“…Why him?”
Because he moves where I do not remain continuously present.
“So I meet him,” you say, and there’s a careful edge to it now, something trying to reassert logic into a space that keeps refusing to behave logically, “because you need… what? A go-between?”
Because interaction must occur where certainty and uncertainty coexist. There is a disruption. Anubis is missing.
Your fave shoving you onto the bed with your legs knocked apart wide—your chest and face planted against the sheets while they take two massive thumbs and spread your ass/thighs apart and take turns switching between what fingers go inside till you're shakey and cant even beg them to give you more because they've gotten you so worked up to the point you're just a dumb dumb toy.
hii !! i’m back! i finally finished school fully for the summer!
anyways, this one is a lil suggestive but you can write it with any tone , sitting on moon boys laps pls? <3
tysm , have an amazing day!
-🐞
Moon Knight Personalities x Reader | Sitting on Their Laps
fem!reader if you’d like, but kept neutral unless requested! Slightly suggestive,, SFW-ish with a wink
Steven Grant ₊˚⊹ ᰔ
Steven’s cheeks flush instantly when you settle yourself on his lap mid-reading session. One minute he’s softly mumbling facts about ancient Egyptian love poems, and the next, he’s holding the book mid-air with his brain buffering like a Windows 98 computer.
“U-uhm… did you, I mean—do you want more room? I can—”
You shush him with a smile, curling into his chest.
He melts.
His hands hover awkwardly before finally resting lightly on your hips. You swear he’s trembling just slightly, trying so hard to stay respectful while also completely losing it inside.
“Right, yes, lap is… available. Entirely yours. Always.”
You lean in close to whisper something teasing in his ear, and the poor man makes a noise. Something between a whimper and a gasp. He’s not going to recover.
Marc Spector⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪
You straddle his lap after a sparring session—sweaty, smug, victorious (even though you technically lost). He’s still catching his breath, hands on your thighs like they belong there, giving you that signature “I know exactly what you’re doing” smirk.
“Careful, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and gritty, eyes dark with heat. “You keep climbing into my lap like that, and you’re gonna get more than just a breather.”
You arch a brow, challenging him. “Promise?”
He grins—wolfish, cocky.
Big hands slide over your waist like he owns it, like he’s memorized you a hundred times before.
“Don’t tempt me unless you’re ready to cash in.”
And yeah. You might’ve been planning to tempt him all along.
Jake Lockley ⋆⭒˚.⋆
You don’t even ask, you just drop into his lap in the backseat of the cab after a long night, unbothered by the leather and the dim glow of city lights. His arms wrap around you before you even settle, possessive and easy, like this is second nature.
Jake leans in close, breath warm against your ear.
“Mi cielo… you know what you’re doing to me, don’t you?”
You hum innocently, letting your hips shift just enough to feel the sharp inhale he tries to hide.
His gloved hand slides up your back, slow, firm. You can feel the tension in him, the restraint. He could flip the script in a second, and you both know it.
My favourite trope is when Marc Spector loves you, Steven Grant loves you, even that evil pigeon loves you but not Jake Lockley. Little do you know he’s secretly been dreaming about you loving him the same way you love the rest of the system
Every author who’s ever written a story like this — I’m kissing your hands
You smile up at your sweet, sweet boyfriend. His brown eyes wide with adoration. Just looking up at his little dopey smile, you know that it's Steven that's fronting.
"Enjoy your nap, love?"
"Yeah," you answer as you nuzzle your face into his palm. He's leaning over you, one hand propping himself up while the other gently cups your face.
"I've been waiting for you to wake up for a while now." Steven admits.
"Oh?" Steven nods, his dark hair falling in front of his face. "You have something planned?" You ask.
Steven shrugs a shoulder before leaning down and kissing you softly. "Not really, just miss your company."
"You were napping with me, Steven." You laugh out.
"Yeah, but I want more." You don't need to ask what more means. You can tell by the way Steven trails his lips down your neck, mouthing at your pulse point.
"Is someone feeling a little needy?" You tease.
"No." Steven says.
"Oh, so I guess I can get on with my day then?" You ask as you push Steven away from your neck. You nearly coo at the little whine he let's out.
"Yes," Steven admits quickly. He's always quick to fold. "I'm needy. Been missing you."
"Baby," you coo. "That's all you had to say."
No more words are spoken for a while as Steven trails his hands up your shirt. Skimming his fingers up your naked torso. He nips and sucks at your neck like a child with their pacifier. Your own hands run up his naked back, trailing through the ends of his hair and lightly pulling. You're quick to capture the moan Steven let's out with your mouth.
"Bloody hell," Steven breathes out as he pulls away from the kiss. His hands make their way to your underwear, having taken your pants off before getting into bed earlier for your nap."I need you, darling."
"You got me, baby." You tell him as you shimmy out of your underwear. They're damp with your arousal and Steven is quick to toss them off the bed along with his own.
"Just wanna be in you, love." Steven admits.
"Go for it." You tell him, but he's quick to shake his head.
"No, love. Gotta prep you, yeah."
"Steven," you whine as he slips a finger inside of you.
"Been waiting for this for a while." Steven tells you as he thrusts his finger inside of you. He adds a second finger when you start to tilt your hips down towards his hand. "Now you gotta wait just a bit, love."
"Steven," you warn. Wanting nothing more than his cock in you right now.
"Almost there, love."
After adding a third finger and thoroughly teasing you, Steven slips his fingers out of you and lines his cock up at your entrance. He's slow to push in, much unlike his alters, Steven likes to take his time entering you.
"Oh God," You moan.
"Not God, love, just me." Steven says rather cheekily.
You laugh as you move to meet his thrust. "I need you to pick up the pace."
"You got it love." Steve says and true to his word, his next thrust comes faster and harder than the last. "Like that?"
"Yes," You hiss in pleasure as Steven continues to fuck you. When it comes to sex, hard and fast isn't typically Steven's style. But he likes anything that brings you pleasure and today that's this. "So good, Stevie."
"Oh love," Steven coos. "Feel so good wrapped around me. Gonna make me come."
"Do it." You order.
"Not without you. Gotta make you come."
"I'm close," you whine. "So close." Your hands grab onto Steven's ass, pulling him in closer. "Gonna come, Stevie."
"Oh love, come for me." Steven begs. You moan and cry out as you reach your climax, crying Steven's name just as you feel him reach his own end, filling you up with his spend.
You expect Steven to pull out next. To get started on cleaning the two of you up and laying down for cuddles. But instead he's lifting your legs over his shoulders, his cock still hard inside of you.
"Steven!" You shout as his cock hits even deeper into you.
"Try again." A deep voice orders. You look up to meet your boyfriend's gaze and you can tell that Steven is no longer the one looking back at you. Marc is fronting now and he doesn't seem to be satisfied the way Steven was.
"Marc," you lament.
"There we go." Marc chuckles. "Thought you were done?" He asks.
"Wasn't expecting you." You tell him truthfully.
"Oh, would you rather Steven come back?" He asks. Despite his hard cock inside of you, you know that if you said yes that Marc would get Steven back in the body instantly.
"No, as long as he's not upset. I know he likes our down time after sex."
"He does," Marc says as he slowly thrusts his cock in and out of you. "But he's happy to watch, too." Marc leans down and kisses you. It's different from Steven, harder, but still tender. "Let's give him a show."
You can't help but cry out in shoke and pleasure as Marc gives a hard thrust into your channel. Your hand comes down to grab the meat of his thigh and your sure that the both of you are going to have bruises from each other once this is done. "You know," Marc grunts as he fucks you. His hair falls into his eyes but he doesn't move it, his hands stay wrapped tightly around your ankles, holding them over his shoulders. "I've been watching for a while now. Watching you moan and cry for Steven."
"Oh fuck," you babble. Your eyes close in pleasure for a moment before opening back up and meeting Marc's dark gaze.
"All I could think while I watched you get split a part on his cock was that I could do a better job."
"Marc!" You cry as you quickly reach your second orgasm. Still sensitive from Steven, you're quick to climax a second time.
"Now I gotta show him how a real man does it." Marc says before crashing his mouth onto yours. Your kiss is dirty, a mess of teeth and tongues. Your hands reach up for his dark strands of hair, pulling and grabbing.
"So good, Marc. So good." Your words are slurred with pleasure, more babbling than anything. But Marc answers you still.
"Gonna come inside of you, baby. Gonna pump you full. You'll be leaking with me."
"Fuck Marc please!" You beg.
"Fuck baby, take it!" Marc orders. His grip on you tightens as he reaches his end. "Fucking take my cock, take my come!" Marc groans as he comes inside of you. Leaning down his his face buried in your neck. Marc pulls his cock free of you and you whine at the emptiness despite feeling the beginnings of being overstimulated. You don't register that he's moved again until you feel a mouth at your entrance, a tongue licking up the come that leaks out of you.
"Fuck!" You cry as you jolt back, further into the pillows. "Too much!"
The licking stops for a moment before you hear your boyfriend speak. But it's not Marc that speaks this time, but Jake. "Common princess, you can handle it. Just tryna clean you up a bit." You don't get a chance to answer before you feel Jake's mouth back at you entrance, lucking and sucking you clean. You squirm away, for back into the headboard, but Jake is quick to grab onto your legs and pull you back to were he kneels between your open legs. He doesn't appreciate you trying to take away his little treat and pinches your thigh in warning. "Stop moving." He orders before he continues to suck your fucking soul out of your body.
"Jake!" You yell. You yell loud enough for the neighbour's to hear, no doubt giving them the idea you're having one hell of a foursome. Your next release comes so fast it's nearly painful. There's no more of the slow, teasing buildup. "Too much," you sob just as Jake pulls away from between your legs. His right hand rubs you leg gently, a stark contrast to his attitude earlier.
"Too much?" He asks with a faux pout.
"Too much, Jake."
"Okay, " Jake says softly. "In that case just one more then." You don't get a chance to answer before his mouth is back on you. Licking and sucking and devouring. Somewhere in the back of your mind you know that your boyfriend is full of his when he says just one more, but you can't complain. Not too much, at least. Not when he's making you feel so good. Your body is limp and your half conscious by the time your faith, six? Climax comes barrling through you. Jake's mouth must be sore, he's been at it for a long time, but he doesn't say so.
"Too much." You whimper. Your limp hand gives a weak attempt at pushing Jake's head away, but it quickly falls flat on the bedsheets.
"I know, princess. All done." You breath out at the promise of an end. You're more than ready to take another nap now, to go back to sleep and not wake up for hours. You're just about to do so when your boyfriend's voice has you peaking your eyes open at him. "We're all done." He promises again. "Just as soon as I get one more from you." He says with a smirk before diving back into your center.
i don't understand how some people can "hate" fanfiction. I mean come come on now? There are fanfic writers out here dropping shakespeare level literature disguised as a fanfic FOR FREE!??? IN THIS ECONOMY!??
I don't think y'all understand how much of a blessing fanfic writers are to people like me who NEED extra content regarding our fav characters before we finally move our hyper fixation elsewhere.
They are writing for people like me they are doing us a FAVOUR. They don't need to write, they don't need to keep up with our "asks" and "reqs" but they do! Because they enjoy writing. They enjoy the joy they get when a person appreciates their art, reads it, spreads it through reblogs and leaves the tiniest comment that show that their work is read and loved.
Even underrated characters have fanfic writers atp and I'm HERE FOR IT.
Who even expected there to be dhurandhar fanfics? Def not me but girllll the joy I felt when I jokingly searched for that "rehman x reader" tag and found so many works is indescribable!
Oh and did I mention they do this for FREE!????
The day they start charging us for reading fanfics im going to have to take loans and go knee throat-deep in debt .
So to all the fanfic writers who feel under appreciated and question themselves, PLEASEEEEE KNOW THAT I LOVE YOU!!! Whoever you are whatever you do, your fanfics are the reason I'm not depressed. And I'm sure even if I don't belong to the fandom you write for there is atleast one person who thinks the same!
